I walk out into a smoking wood. Charred branches, blackened ground. The grass has burnt away. Aftermath.
The fires were hot, and quick, and all-consuming. Last night was a fever.
Walking in silence along familiar paths. Heavy heart. How to repair? Where to start?
O Lord, where have you gone?
A bud, emerging from a dry branch already. Another farther on. Another still.
Life returns, Lord. You are in the new growth. But were you not also in the blasted ground? Will I find treasure there, if only I look?
Help me to see you, in tragedy and birth alike.